


roses: the bounty hunter one

by OedipusOctopus



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, absolutely not a slow burn, and they go on adventures together, bounty bros, hanzo seems like a cold binch but really he's a soft sentimental fool in love, hanzo turns down genji's invite to overwatch, mccree finds him, the business mccree has to take care of, two old men constantly teasing each other, will try to write plot but we'll see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:00:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22773781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OedipusOctopus/pseuds/OedipusOctopus
Summary: McCree has some business to take care of before he can properly think of answering the Recall. It’s mighty lucky he knows of a fella with experience taking down organized crime gangs that could help the process along.Alternatively: It does not take long for Hanzo to fall in love with McCree, all things considered.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	roses: the bounty hunter one

**Author's Note:**

> completely self-indulgent because i just want to see hanzo being a stupid idiot in love with mccree.
> 
> title from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lTOjRrhgakk).

It does not take long for Hanzo to fall in love with McCree, all things considered. 

* * *

“How did you find me?”

The man beside him cracks a rueful grin. Though he cannot see the man’s eyes beneath the dramatically large brim of his ridiculous hat, he imagines they too hold some mirth behind their hardened exterior. The man doesn’t respond immediately; instead, he lifts a mouthful of noodles to his mouth with practiced ease. The irritating _slurp_ that follows tells him this man must be American. 

Eventually the man speaks. The Southern drawl isn’t quite expected, but Hanzo remains unsurprised. 

“A lil’ birdy told me this here is one of your regular haunts.” A low chuckle ripples through the air, passes over the empty seat between them. A laugh at an inside joke Hanzo would rather not be privy to. “A sparrow, if you will.”

Really, he should have been expecting this. Staying in the same place was always risky, but staying in Hanamura held its own unique brand of danger. Hanzo knew it was foolish, staying here for the week following his meeting with that… thing. The thing posing as Hanzo’s dead brother. 

_The world is changing once again, Hanzo. It is time to pick a side._

Hanzo was nothing if not thorough. He’d heard about some half-omnic calling himself _Shimada Genji_ traipsing around the world in the name of global heroism--in the name of Overwatch. More than once he caught wind of some grand militant scheme on the Shimada estate in the years since Hanzo’s own defection. Such a flashy organization attempting to take down that which Hanzo spent his last years in the clan crumbling the order from the top made him sneer at their repeated failures. 

But this “Genji” asking Hanzo to join Overwatch was all the proof Hanzo needed to deem this cyborg a pale imitation—no brother of his, no matter how foolish, would ask him to join such a folleyed militant organization after Hanzo spent the better part of thirty years trying to break free from the very same. 

And now this fake had sent another (albeit rumoured) agent to coerce Hanzo to join Overwatch. 

Blessedly, “Genji” sent Hanzo a beautiful, $60 million USD target to his feet. 

“I suppose you are here to recruit me, then.”

Another guttural chuckle escapes the man. The sound makes Hanzo ears prick with interest in a way he has not felt in decades. “I ain’t here for hero business.”

“So you have taken up your former commander’s invitation.” Hanzo picks up his chopsticks but does not move them into his bowl. “Talon is usually more subtle with their recruitment efforts. I suppose I should thank them for the bounty when this is over.”

This time the man laughs, full and with a rasp indicative of a tobacco problem Hanzo is all too familiar with. The only other patron in the small ramen stand jumps at the sudden sound from their seat at the end of the bar. The chef looks up from the bowl he’s been drying for the last ten minutes since he served the man in a cowboy hat. He makes eye contact with Hanzo, lifts an eyebrow in question while looking between the two of them. With a subtle shake of his head, Hanzo lifts a bite of noodles to his mouth. 

“Funny, he never mentioned you got a sense of humor in you.” The man pushes away his half-empty bowl and leans as far back on his stool as is possible without falling off. Lax. “Nah, I’m a free agent these days. I’m here for you, darlin’.”

The easy, lazy way Americans speak has always fascinated Hanzo in the way rolling a twig over a caterpillar fascinates young children—it’s gross, gruesome, and yet the search for another insect continues. That a stranger destined to die by his hand should call him such a sweet name as _darling_ sends a thrill thrumming through his veins unlike any drug money can buy. 

“How precious.” Hanzo takes another bite of his food. He’s in Hanamura but once a year; there’s no use in letting such a delicacy as Rikimaru ramen sit until soggy. As he chews his food without haste, he expects the other man to speak, but he does not. The chef has moved on to drying tea cups. “If a back alley romp before your death is your wish, I suppose I shall grant it.”

“You’re a real hoot n’ a half, anyone ever tell ‘ya so?”

The other patron leaves the establishment with a step faster than that of a casual, unconcerned citizen. 

“I’m here to request your help. Reckon I could use a fella such as yourself to watch my back while I take care o’ some ole business.” 

Another uniquely American _quirk_ Hanzo has learned in his travels: outright entitlement. The dagger strapped to his ankle presses a cold question to his skin— _Why is he still breathing?_

“What is in it for me to help the notorious Jesse McCree? If I were to travel with you, your target would by proxy drift to my back.”

“I didn’t rightly take ya for a coward.” 

The chopsticks still beneath his fingers. “Coward?” Hanzo scoffs. “It would be foolish to allow such a steep bounty to be placed on my own head simply because someone asked nicely. It is not cowardice to avoid such a fate, but wisdom.”

The man leans toward Hanzo, resting an elbow on the counter. “Word on the street is you’re already a big target all on your lonesome.”

Hanzo thoroughly chews another mouthful of noodles, considering. He’s never been one to want for company. Jobs were meant to be taken alone, the reward reaped in solitude. That way there were no power trips or ploys for getting more than your fair share—while alone, the whole thing is your share. And on the note of loneliness—the very concept is constructed in a society fueled by the need for constant approval. Too much of his life has been spent yearning for approval, reaching beyond the limits of his own capabilities (however far off they may be) to spread himself so thin if only to receive a curt nod and insincere _Good work, oyabun_. Loneliness was contrite, fake.

A weakness.

“I shall repeat: what do you propose I would gain from ‘helping’ you?” 

The man lifts his foot to rest on the bottom bar supporting his stool. “I got money, but I doubt that’s what you’re askin’ after.”

Hanzo’s lips quirk into a smirk he doesn’t wish to hide. “The money I will collect from the price on your head will be plenty for me, but thank you for the offer.”

“Lotta talk for a man who ain’t so much as tried to harm a hair on my pretty head yet.” The other leg raises to rest beside his foot and the man’s legs flop open in a lazy display. Disgraceful. “I’m awful slippery. Might wanna catch me while you can, sweetheart.”

What a thing to say. 

“Anyhow, all I can offer ya is my company and an easy out o’ this place.” The man leans impossibly closer to Hanzo, and really, it’s ridiculous--his chest plate is nearly touching the empty seat between them, his legs are still wide open, his back is curved and torsioned in a ridiculous posture that makes Hanzo press his own shoulders back. “Beneath all that stone-cold bitch face, I know you’re itchin’ to get outta here but feel some sense o’ misplaced obligation to stay. Come on, doll, ride into the sunset with me.”

And then the man sits back up, stretching out a gloved hand in invitation. Hanzo looks down at the worn leather stretched over the man’s fingertips. His knees are so far apart Hanzo thinks it surely must burn the inside of his thighs. “You have yet to introduce yourself but are asking me to leave my life behind for you? How… bold.”

The man’s white teeth glint in the low light of the ramen stand, seeming to glow against his tanned complexion. His canine comes to a smooth but nonetheless sharp point that drags along his lower lip as it spreads into a grin. “How rude o’ me; my mama must be rollin’ in her grave.” The man twists his hand so the palm is parallel with the wall, this time calling for a handshake. “The name’s McCree.”

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/OedipusOctopus) to hear me scream about fics/weeb shit
> 
> drop a fic request at my [tumblr](https://yeet-haw-n-dragonboy.tumblr.com/)
> 
> also i promise i'll update the coffee shop au when my anxiety stops kicking my ass and ruining my mood


End file.
